


Something Wicked This Way Squirms

by KoreArabin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Bondage, Captivity, Choking, Deepthroating, Forced Orgasm, Nipple Torture, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Other, Tears, Tentacle Rape, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 22:26:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1664777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frustrated by Moriarty's refusal to respond to his interrogation, Mycroft resorts to somewhat other-worldly methods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s intensely frustrating and irritating, how smugly the little Irish crime lord sits there, gazing back at Mycroft through the one-way glass, his jet black hair slicked back tidy and smooth and clean, washed free from the grease and the sweat and the blood that've collected in it over the past weeks of continuous interrogation.

In fact, apart from the fading rainbow of bruises and abrasions decorating Moriarty’s pale, self-satisfied little face, and the fact that he’s still wearing the torn and filthy was-once-white-but-sadly-no-longer t-shirt and the blood-stained grey marl sweat pants, one might not even realise that he’s been subjected to a constant round of electrocutions, beatings, sleep deprivation and really just about everything Mycroft could think of to hurl at him to try to get the infuriating little bastard to fucking talk.

So now he sits, on the slatted metal interrogation chair, the one bolted to the floor, staring back at Mycroft, his legs spread wide, a real macho _‘fuck you’_ if ever there was one, his hands crossed behind his neck, looking totally unconcerned about the fact that he’s still Mycroft’s prisoner.

Mycroft smiles tightly to himself. But not for long, Mr Moriarty. Not for long.

~~~

The thing in the locked steel box was a real discovery. When news of its existence first filtered through to Mycroft, via an offhand remark by the Defense [sic] Attaché at the American Embassy, to a liaison from Number 10 after a quiet post-Cabinet chat in the study with the son of a former schoolmate’s lobbyist friend, to an even quieter après-theatre brandy (or two) at the Diogenes, he had dismissed it as the somewhat tipsy recollection of a profound misunderstanding somewhere or other along the line. How surprised Mycroft had been to discover that the rumours circulating via the Chinese whispering corridors of Whitehall had been 100% correct.

And now, a chance to personally witness the thing in action! Mycroft’s grin widens as he watches Jim blowing raspberries at his reflection in the glass. 

It really couldn’t happen to a more blatantly deserving chap.

~~~ 

Jim yawns widely, smacking his lips for effect as the security flap towards the bottom edge of the door clicks open and a grey metal box is pushed into the cell. The box is roughly six inches or so square, and featureless except for a number of tiny perforations on its upper face.

At first he decides to ignore it. Why give the Iceman anything to watch? Even getting up and padding over to the box in his bare feet is too much of a reaction. No, he’ll sit tight and continue with the raspberries. And maybe flick the Vs a few times, just for a bit of puerile fun. 

He’s noticed that even though Mycroft says nothing, his jaw tightens whenever Jim responds in a particularly annoyingly childish way to the questioning.

He closes his eyes and leans back in the metal chair.

Boring, boring, _boring_... 

But then – what was that? An unexpected and rather peculiar noise from the box has Jim instantly alert. Something between a gurgle and a slap, thick and wet. The only similar sounds Jim can recall are the sucking bubbles and plops of the geothermal mud pots he and Seb went to see in Iceland. The ones they had threatened to throw a particularly annoying client who’d got far too big for his boots into. 

Fuck, he’d almost pissed himself laughing at how _sorry_ the stupid cunt had been, imagining that he'd somehow had any effect whatso-fucking-ever on the financial crisis, when Jim had engineered _the whole fucking thing_. Eventually Sebby had simply shot the sad sack in the eye and dumped the body into a glacier, and Jim had been so bored of the _whole fucking thing_ by that point he'd had to take a handful of uppers to keep himself awake to enjoy the show.

But - back to the here-and-now. So. What’s wily old Mycroft up to? Trying to do a Room 101 on him? 

Bad luck, chubster. Jim Moriarty’s no fucking Winston Smith.

Curious now, Jim pads over to the box, poking at it with his toe. Silence. He prods again, tipping the box slightly. Still nothing. Getting impatient, he squats down and feels along the edges of the top face. The box opens easily and Jim peers inside. 

Nothing very exciting; just a glutinous, black what-appears-to-be liquid, its surface rippling gently from the movement of the lid opening. Jim stares at it for a few minutes then, shrugging, stands and turns to return to his seat.

~~~

Mycroft watches intently as Jim turns back to the chair, missing the tendril of gleaming blackness that begins to ooze its way out of the top corner of the box, thickening as it slides down its side and starts to slither slowly across the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

The thing slides so silently and swiftly across the floor that Jim clearly doesn’t notice that, by the time he’s slumped back down on the chair, it’s underneath and tendrils of black ooze are beginning to spiral up one of the legs. Jim’s little yelp of surprise as the tip of the tentacle reaches his hip is really rather amusing, Mycroft thinks, sipping his oolong. He must get some Ardbeg brought in for when the show really starts.

~~~

For a couple of seconds, Jim is too startled to do anything about the fronds of undulating blackness snaking across his lap until they’ve effectively tied him tightly to the chair, and by then it’s too late.

The tendrils multiply and some spiral down over his limbs, strapping them tightly to the chair legs, whilst others encase his torso, slipping behind him to bind his arms tightly together.

He can feel the heat of the thing through his clothing as it slides across the fabric – it’s warm and smooth and living and horrible. The tentacle slipping around his neck has him shouting out in panic, until it tightens to the point where his voice can emerge only as a hoarse whisper, releasing slightly only when Jim stops trying to yell.

Tendrils begin to rise up from the stuff swirling across his chest, twisting upwards with a peculiar fluid grace, rotating back upon themselves until they form a much thicker column of oily blackness. An oily blackness that begins to move towards Jim’s mouth.

Jim forces his lips together, biting down on the insides of them with his teeth, determined that the – thing – whatever is it is not going anywhere near his mouth, thank you very fucking much. The tentacle pauses, its end tipping sideways, for all the world an animal cocking its black, eyeless, gelatinous head as it considers its prey.

Then, with what would be a shrug if the thing _possessed shoulders_ , it shoots out two tendrils straight into Jim’s nostrils.

Jim chokes in surprise, coughing and retching as the sensitive lining of his nasal passageways burns with fuck knows what as the tendrils corkscrew up and deeper inside.

As Jim coughs and splutters, the thing takes its chance, the thick column sliding smoothly between his parted lips and forcing his jaws wide open. It’s almost as if it’s punishing him tor trying to deny it entry, Jim thinks dimly, as his mouth is filled with the glutinous black ooze. It tickles along the roof of his mouth, triggering his gag reflex, and moulds itself over his teeth, stuffing him with more and more of the material until he’s sure he’s going to choke or his jaw’s going to dislocate or possibly both.

What happens next is so disgusting that Jim starts gagging in earnest. The thing wraps itself around his tongue and begins to _suck_ , at the same time releasing a cloyingly sweet, viscous fluid that trickles down his throat, thick and nauseating. It’s like having the most revoltingly intimate unwanted French kiss of his life, whilst he’s held helpless and immobile in the chair, unable to even rock it backwards or forwards as the thing coils itself ever more tightly around him.

Another tendril separates from the mass on his chest, but this one flattens itself out to form a thick, leathery membrane which wraps around the lower part of Jim’s face, moulding itself to his skin so that the thick column of matter is held firmly inside his mouth.

And then it begins to thrust. 

~~~

Jim starts as Mycroft's voice filters smoothly through into the cell.

“I should imagine a lot of things are going through your mind at the moment, Mr Moriarty. Can I escape from this cell? What _is_ it? What is it going to do to me? Amongst others, no doubt.

The answers to those particular questions are: no; we don’t know; and it is going to violate you. Repeatedly.”

Mycroft settles back into his comfortable leather captain’s chair and props his feet up on his desk.

“It’s just one of a number of specimens currently on loan to us from our trans-Atlantic friends. No doubt discovered at Area 51 or some such top secret mysterious location or other in the desert where these things always seem to appear. Strange how they never bother to visit cities or places where anything one might imagine an alien life form might wish to investigate, isn’t it? To actually meet some humans and have a chat, rather than just dive in and probe our most intimate orifices? But no matter. 

What we have so far learned about these strange creatures is that they are uncontrollably attracted to certain types of human secretions. Saliva being one, as you're discovering. Tears another, and I understand that some of them are beginning to develop the taste for a little blood, too. However, their overriding _passion_ is for human semen.”

As Jim’s eyes flutter open and shut with panic above the thick, black, _pulsating_ membrane covering the lower half of his face, his throat working around the fat tentacle effectively _fucking_ his mouth and oesophagus, Mycroft continues, dispassionately.

“Yes, dear me, how curious. Human semen. Something I imagine that you have rather a lot of, stored up. Although I am, of course, _assuming_ that our attentions over the past few weeks haven’t exactly left you a huge amount of time or, indeed, _inclination_ for much masturbation? For all I know or, indeed, _care_ , you could have been - ahem! - frigging yourself stupid in wild masochistic abandon every day.”

As if on cue, a tendril begins to snake its way down from the mass of black holding Jim’s body immobile and hooks itself under the ankle cuff of his sweat pants.

"Ah. There we are. It's sensed that you are a male. Brace yourself, Mr Moriarty. You are in for a long and really rather unpleasant ride."


	3. Chapter 3

The smothered moans of panic from behind the membrane muzzle increase markedly in volume as another tendril snakes under the ankle cuff, and then another and another, until the grey marl fabric of the sweat pants appears to be alive with movement. With a sudden loud tearing noise, the material is ripped away, leaving Jim’s lower half completely bare. Naturally, Mycroft doesn’t allow his detainees the luxury of _underpants_.

The tentacles now twisting across Jim’s legs are much finer than the ones trussing him to the chair, and they curl delicately over his inner thighs, caressing the skin in teasing, feather-light swirls of sensation. Mycroft notes with some surprise that the tendrils make no attempt to touch Jim’s groin, moving instead as if they are purposely avoiding the area for the time being.

More tentacles move up under the t-shirt and this, too, is soon torn away, falling to the floor in shreds of dirty frayed cotton. More sounds issue from behind the muzzle as other groups of tendrils swirl around Jim’s nipples, but this time Mycroft isn’t sure whether they are moans of pain or pleasure. Or perhaps both? During his time interrogating the little Irish shit Mycroft has discovered that Moriarty’s masochistic streak is as wide as the sadistic one running through him, if not wider.

~~~

When the tendrils begin to play with his nipples, Jim’s instinctive reaction is to pull away, but even as he tries to do so they begin to ooze more of the same thick fluid currently being fed into his mouth all over his chest. The tendrils continue to squeeze and suck at Jim’s nipples, turning them a deep, inflamed red as they swell and stiffen under the creature’s ministrations. 

Jim moans even more loudly and his eyes roll back as the tendrils tormenting his nipples suddenly bite down, like a thousand tiny pinpricks sparking electricity through the sensitive flesh all at once. The pressure intensifies and he realises that they’re actually sucking – _sucking blood from his nipples, for fuck’s sake_.

It’s bizarre and surreal and horrific, and yet it feels _so fucking good_.

His cock is rapidly stiffening and, despite himself, he begins to writhe in earnest in his bonds, his hips working as he tries to thrust upwards, but he is held far too securely in the creature’s grasp to do much more than vaguely rock slightly against the chair. 

His _mmmph_ of relief when the tendrils start to snake around up and over his prick is audible even over the rather disgusting wet squelching noises the creature has started making as it moves over its victim. A frond of tentacle flicks back and forth across the tip of Jim's cock, playing with the slit and dripping more of the sweet goo over it. The skin immediately reddens and Jim's efforts at thrusting redouble, albeit as ineffectually as before. 

The membrane muzzle suddenly begins to flow away from Jim's face, revealing the thick tentacle thrusting energetically into his mouth. Jim's head is forced backwards as the column of matter thickens even more, stretching his lips open around it as far as they will go, Jim's choking and gurgling as his mouth is so thoroughly and repeatedly violated joining the squelches and slurps of the creature as it plays with him. 

Jim moans long and loud around the tentacle fucking his face when the one playing with his cock suddenly starts to worm its way into his urethra, squirting fluid to lubricate its way but sucking at him at the same time until he feels like it's going to turn his prick inside fucking out. Once it's fully penetrated the length of his cock, it begins to thrust in time with the one in his mouth, as other tendrils wrap wetly around his prick and _squeeze_ in counterpoint to the thrusts. 

~~~ 

Mycroft simply can't tear his eyes away, staring in horrified fascination as the hollow squelches and slaps increase in volume as the creature's glisteningly glutinous tentacles ooze over Jim's pale skin. Then, with a sudden movement, a screech and crunch of metal, and an even louder sob of mingled _horror-lust-despair-ecstasy-who-the-fuck-knows-what-the-fuck-is-what-anymore?_ from Jim, it rips a huge hole in the seat of the chair. 


	4. Chapter 4

The fat, rubbery column filling his mouth and throat like the most enormous dick he’s ever been forced to suck in his life - and Jim’s sucked on a fair few during his relatively short but _sexually fucking voracious_ life - continues to leak the sickly sweet syrup, and Jim feels himself beginning to become quite whoozy and disorientated. 

On the one hand, he’s totally lucid and utterly revolted by what’s happening to him. The – thing – is still thrusting hard into his throat, forcing him to snort desperately for air through his nose on each backstroke, and the one corkscrewed deep in his cock is sucking for all it’s worth along the length of his urethra presumably, from what the fucking Iceman’s told him, to slurp up every last drop of spunk.

Yet, at the same time, the pleasure-pain and the humiliation and the utter helplessness of his situation are making him so hard it hurts. If his prick wasn’t so thoroughly plugged with alien tentacle he’d probably be creaming all over himself, the chair, the floor and no doubt the fucking alien too. 

It must be something to do with the sweet stuff oozing from the creature. Everywhere the gooey secretion has touched him, he’s become unbearably sensitive and aroused. 

And now – if he’s read the chair seat shredding scenario correctly – he’s about to have his arse stuffed full of alien tentacle too.

Jim senses the warmth emanating from the thing before he feels the first wet tendrils begin to explore his backside. Two separate tentacles slide up the very tops of the backs of his thighs and coil around each buttock, suddenly squeezing and sucking at the same time, pulling them apart and exposing his arsehole.

He moans around the tentacle still stretching out his jaw, telling himself he’s not disappointed, not really, when its thrusts become gentler and it begins to leak less of the sweet sticky syrup into his mouth. He doesn’t start to suck and lave at the thing with his tongue, desperate for more of the intoxicating nectar, no, not at all, of course not.

The thrusting and sucking in his cock abates, too, as the thing – presumably – redirects its curiosity to his arse. A warm, wet tendril strokes back and forth across his hole, soaking it with fresh spurts of fluid, as the coils holding his buttocks apart tighten, pulling them further apart and exposing him even more, and Jim braces himself for the penetration he’s expecting to happen any minute. But, to his surprise, instead of forcing itself into his opening, the tendril instead retreats, only to slap down hard a second later across his defenceless arsehole.

The – well - _whipping_ continues as Jim chokes in surprise around the tentacle now somewhat lazily fucking his mouth. 

_What in the name of holy fuck? A kinky fucking alien life form that not only enjoys slurping up come, but’s also into arsehole whipping?_

As if sensing his thoughts, the creature squeezes his cock harder, rippling its tendrils up and down the shaft and sucking hard at the tip, and Jim can’t help himself. He’s grinding down into the chair, _wanting_ the thing to stop playing with him and fuck him properly. 

_Yes, ladies and gentlemen and fucking extra-terrestrial life forms of the audience, I’m going to be spitroast by a fucking lump of fucking alien fucking goo and I can’t wait. I’m going to fucking love every fucking minute of it. Except I’m going to fucking hate every fucking minute of it. Or am I? What the **fuck** am I doing?_

~~~

If Mycroft’s expression was previously one of horrified fascination, it’s now that multiplied by roughly one hundred thousand percent. James Moriarty, the feared Irish crime lord, the world’s only consulting criminal, the terror of London, is sitting back in his chair, thick tendrils of dripping blackness snaking over his body, sucking enthusiastically at the alien phallus stuffing his mouth, his cock ramrod stiff, red and dripping as he fucks into the tentacles swarming over it, moaning in ecstasy as the creature sucks his nipples swollen to the point of lactation.

And now he’s bouncing in his seat, rolling his hips and grinding his backside down as if _inviting_ the thing to violate his arse. 

Mycroft isn’t really surprised to find his mouth dry and his own cock swelling up against the inside seam of his trousers, and it takes a moment to get his voice under control and imbued with its usual calm authority.

“Well, well, Mr Moriarty. It is not as if I did not imagine that there was something of the _slut_ in you. The news of your penchant for ‘a bit of rough’ in the Soho underground does get around, in certain circles, as I am sure you are aware, as do the lurid rumours of your sado-masochistic relationship with Colonel Moran. Oh dear me, material there to whet the most jaded of sexual palates, to be sure.

However, I must confess that I did not anticipate being treated to quite such a display of wanton sluttish _enthusiasm_ for your violation by – now, how to put this delicately? – a sex-crazed rapist _alien_.”

Mycroft takes a long swallow of his Ardbeg as Jim rolls his eyes at him, moaning and writhing in apparent sexual abandon in the creature’s slimy coils.

“A marriage made in heaven for you then, perhaps? Well, fear not, Mr Moriarty. My American contacts tell me that these creatures are quite indefatigable when a willing victim – well, in fact, _any_ victim - presents himself to them, so prepare yourself for a very arduous, protracted, and _thorough_ fucking.

And, when it is at last over, if you are still as reluctant to answer my questions, it will begin all over again.”


	5. Chapter 5

One of the really slippery tendrils is slapping wetly back and forth along his perineum and another is squeezing his testicles just hard enough to be right on the cusp between pleasure-pain and pain-pleasure. Jim moans loud and long as more fluid is smeared up the crack of his arse, dripping down over his hole and trickling down the inside of his thighs.

On the one hand, his body is betraying him into squirming in desperate frustration, wanting to be penetrated and fucked raw by the creature, but at the same time Jim is truly horrified and revolted at the way the - presumably - aphrodisiac-laced sweet syrup it secretes is making him so wantonly complicit in his violation.

And that fat fuck of a Holmes can fuck right off too, calling him a slut wanting his arse fucked. He’d like to see how the fucking frigid Iceman would fare in the creature’s clutches, if their positions were reversed. Or actually, he wouldn’t. Sex-crazed aliens and pompous fat ginger twats getting it up the arse aren’t exactly at the top of his preferred list of wank material. Although sex-crazed aliens fucking pompous fat ginger twats _to death_ , extremely painfully and messily and bloodily, he could probably develop a healthy fetish for.

Jim squeals and squirms some more as the very tip of a frond of tentacle starts to caress his anus, stroking him delicately and wetly, whilst the ones wrapped around his buttocks snake in further between them and begin gently to pull his hole open. The wet tendril strokes rhythmically across the tight little ring of muscle, effectively _rimming_ him. Jim chokes to stifle the hysterical laughter bubbling up inside him. 

_I'm about to be bummed senseless by a sex-crazed alien, but at least it's a sexually- **courteous** sex-crazed alien._

Jim's moment of hysteria soon dies away, however, as the tendrils pull more insistently at the rim of his anus and the wet one thickens as it begins to push inside him. It's too fast and it's too thick and it doesn't give him any chance at all to adjust to the penetration. Jim struggles as hard as he can, but he's held far too firmly in the chair and the creature responds by simply pushing him down hard into the half ripped-out seat as it forces itself even further up inside him.

His arse feels as if it’s about to be ripped open if the thing doesn't stop; he's sure he's been torn, he must have been, but it's difficult to tell with the warm syrup trickling down his thighs and dripping on to the floor as the thing at least (thankfully) lubricates its way up deeper into his insides. But then, as if sensing it's going to really damage Jim if it carries on simply increasing in thickness as it slides into him, the tentacle begins to ripple and pulse, thinning down to a much smaller diameter to pass through the sphincter muscle but thickening up again once it's inside his body.

The pain in his anus abates somewhat, but the feeling of being stuffed so very full, so suddenly, makes Jim feel faint and nauseous. Is it ever going to stop or is it just going to continue until it’s plumbed the entire length of his lower intestine?

Just at the point Jim is sure that he is going to faint or vomit, or both, the thing at last stops oozing into him. He's light-headed and sweating profusely, sat legs akimbo, belly distended, and breathing harshly through his nose, feeling as if he's suffering from the worst case of chronic impaction constipation ever recorded.

But then, as his heart rate and breathing at last start to return to some semblance of normality, a curious sensation in his abdomen has him wincing and twitching in discomfort. Looking down at himself (against his better judgment), he notes almost absently that the surface of his whole pale little tummy is undulating, as the tentacles squirm around deep inside him and, with that horrific visual belatedly sparking its way across his now-forever-scarred psyche, everything goes suddenly black.


	6. Chapter 6

Jim comes to to the sensation of his insides falling rapidly out of his bottom. Within a split second he’s ascertained that he isn’t in fact in the process of being disembowelled, but rather the creature has decided to vacate his lower intestine as gracelessly as it invaded it.

He’s also bound far less tightly to the chair. The creature’s thick _cock_ is no longer filling his throat, and he’s restrained only by thin tendrils wrapped around his wrists and ankles. Jim wriggles experimentally. The tendrils tighten slightly, but otherwise the creature makes no attempt to bind him more forcefully.

He wriggles again and flexes his left wrist. To his surprise, the tendril wrapped around it loosens and flows away down to meet the rest of the creature presumably lurking somewhere beneath the chair. Jim then twists his right wrist with the same result. Shakily, he pulls himself up to a standing position and, unbelievably, the tentacles wrapped around his ankles also loosen and flow away.

Panting erratically and shivering as delayed shock suddenly kicks in, Jim staggers as quickly as he can towards the door.

~~~ 

If Jim is traumatised, Mycroft isn’t far behind him in the shock stakes. Jim looks ghastly; paler than ever, blood trickling from his nipples and between his thighs, and his skin reddened and blistered wherever the creature has touched him. One eye on the door release button, Mycroft pours himself another stiff whisky and downs it in one, torn between freeing Jim from the thing’s clutches and turning him over in his current state to his interrogators, and satisfying his curiosity to see what it will do next.

Jim nearly makes it to the door when the thing, shimmering gently beneath the ruined chair, begins to move. Tendrils snake out across the floor at astonishing speed to wrap tightly around Jim’s ankles, pulling his feet from under him and slamming him facedown to the ground. Then, with a resounding howl of _Noooooooo!_ , Jim is dragged back across the floor, hands stretched out before him, fingers scrabbling desperately at the concrete.

Tentacles swarm over Jim, binding him tightly and lifting him up to dangle in mid-air as if he weighed nothing. Mycroft looks on in horrified fascination as another long, thick column of black twists upwards from the pool on the floor, forming a fat, squelching stalagmite oozing the viscous syrupy substance. Then, slowly, the thing pulls Jim’s legs up and back until he is effectively squatting in mid-air, before lowering him with a sickening inevitability on to the pointed tip of the stalagmite.

~~~ 

Jim moans as the sharp tip of the column of alien matter penetrates him, trying to struggle against the strong tentacles restraining him. Surprisingly, they don’t tighten; in fact, if anything they loosen slightly, allowing him to sink a little lower on to the stalagmite. 

Jim hasn’t cried in a very long, long time (he never cried very much as a boy, so he certainly hasn’t as a man) but he begins to sob quietly as he realises that the fucking infernal bastard fucking alien fucker is going to allow gravity to impale him under his own weight, sliding down slowly and inexorably until the thing is wedged again right up into his rectum.


	7. Chapter 7

Jim's sobs tail away into muted whimpers as the thing, clearly sensing his tears, sends delicate filaments of tendril to explore. Clusters of them swarm up over his face, following the tracks of moisture to his eyes, blinding him as they begin to probe his tear ducts. Jim’s screams of horror and terror are muffled once again as more of the alien ooze snakes up around his neck and over his head, wrapping it in a glistening, undulating mass of oily blackness.

~~~ 

Mycroft mentally reprimands himself as he watches Jim's head disappear beneath the _hood_ of glistening ooze. A moment or so ago he was on the brink of giving in to a far too pathetically sentimental _human_ response to Jim Moriarty's current plight, and freeing him from the clutches of the horrible, insatiable creature in the next room. Jim Moriarty, the man who blows old lady to pieces on a whim (because she said she liked his _soft voice_ ), who poisons and lies and corrupts and - worst of all - would kill his younger brother simply because of a fit of sexually twisted, piqued ennui.

Not that Sherlock isn't infuriating almost beyond endurance occasionally. Well, _continually_. But he _is_ his brother and Mycroft feels for him the closest thing to love he can, and ever will, feel.

So, then. He'll sit and watch, and wince, and shudder, as Jim Moriarty experiences a fucking over that really no-one _other_ than Jim Moriarty should have to experience.

~~~ 

Jim screams, really _screams_ as the impenetrable blackness covers his head, but the sounds he makes are muted so it's like howling into the void, into a vacuum where sound and light don't carry and he's surrounded by nothingness.

He's flailing fit to tear himself to pieces and choking, gasping against the blackness for air, but all his sightless soundless world consists of is the wriggling into his tear ducts, the sensation of a physical invasion of the most horribly unnatural kind, and it just _doesn't stop_ , but keeps worming and violating and burning.

And then Jim's swallowing, sucking the air into his gullet but there's no air, only the thick, rubbery sinew of his tongue lolling backwards and all he can see, suddenly sharp and clear and bright as day is the cat Tommy Kelly from school said was lying dead at the back of his dad's low barn, and Jim and his mates went and looked at it and it had maggots like so many little worms writhing instead of eyes and Jimmy was the only one brave enough to go near and chuck a match to it. 

But they all watched it burn. 

When the tendrils at last recede from his tear ducts Jim can hardly see, his eyes are so sore and swollen, and the interrogation room is a vague grey haze. He licks his lips, experimentally, and swallows, his throat burning from the screaming and choking. He’s weak and exhausted and at point he’s never reached before; he doesn’t know if he can take much more. He’s on the point of cracking, of surrendering, of agreeing to tell the Iceman everything he wants to know, if only he will just _make it stop_.

Just as Jim is about to shout at the glass screen and tell Mycroft to send his guards in to take him, he’s silenced by a thick tentacle poking once again at his lips. When Jim doesn’t open his mouth, another tendril simply wraps itself across his nostrils until, with a moan of resignation, Jim succumbs to the inevitable and opens his mouth.

Immediately the tentacle’s filling it, pumping in gouts of the sweet aphrodisiac syrup which, after an initial bout of gagging and heaving, Jim's sucking down enthusiastically.

Mmmmm. More. Feelin' sorta _horny_.

And then - again - there's that disconnect between what his body's telling him and what his mind's telling him. His body's saying - _mmmmm hey those tentacles have loosened their hold on me up a bit so now I'm able to fuck myself properly on this massive fucking thing stretching my arse oh God yessss_ \- whilst his mind's standing back in horrified clarity, witness to this debasement, _screaming_ at him to resist.

~~~ 

In this battle, it seems, base instinct triumphs over higher reason.

Jim squeals in ecstasy as a translucent tendril snakes up over the tip of his cock, rolling back over itself and then down again to suck and slurp and squeeze like the most amazing fucking blow job he's ever experienced, as Jim begins far too enthusiastically to hump the thick column of alien tentacle buried deep in his arse.


	8. Chapter 8

Mycroft can’t resist popping back in to the observation room now and again, just to catch up on what’s going on. To observe, of course. Not to gloat; perish the thought. Not to get a dark and twisted thrill, heavily laced with _schadenfreude_ , at what fresh atrocity the creature’s inflicting on its victim. Whoever would have imagined that alien black ooze could be so sexually adventurous? 

This morning, for example, it’s wrapped Jim from head to toe in glistening black, only his eyes and the tip of his nose visible, reminding Mycroft of a giant gleaming latex chrysalis. A chrysalis which continually ripples and contracts randomly around its victim, the only fixed point of movement a thumping rhythmic pulsation just around the vicinity of its prisoner's buttocks. 

Jim’s eyes are wild and, if the volume and pitch of the muffled moans emanating from inside the cocoon are anything to go by, he hasn’t been given much of a dose of the creature’s aphrodisiac syrup to help him through this ordeal.

Not only sexually adventurous, but exhibiting a marked tendency toward sexual sadism, too. _Fascinating_.

~~~

Jim knows his struggling is futile, but he can’t help himself. After the last round of fucking, the creature retreated, presumably fucking exhausted, to its box, and Jim was able to get some rest himself, curled up into a ball in the corner of the cell, covered in slime, his thighs soaking wet and sticky with the disgusting alien ooze dribbling from his gaping, battered arsehole.

When the creature woke him, tickling at his mouth with one of its frond-like tentacles, Jim automatically fought it, even managing to get a couple of hard kicks in before being overpowered. So this, he assumes, is the thing’s way of punishing him. 

He’s completely immobile in his rubbery prison, arms crushed tight against his sides and legs pressed tightly together. The creature’s got his cock and balls in a vice-like grip, holding them twisted back between his legs like some sort of horribly painful chastity device, and at the same time it’s ramming into his arse for all it’s worth, with what feels like a particularly thick tentacle covered with knobbles.

And that self-satisfied fat fuck Mycroft Holmes has turned up to gloat at his prisoner again. Jim knows he’s gloating, because he turns the one-way thing on the glass off, so Jim can see him watching him. His current predicament is particularly humiliating because all Jim can compare it to is being a very small fly caught up in the web of a very large spider, albeit a spider who is not so much intent on sucking out his juices and leaving him a dried up husk, but rather on filling him up with sickly sweet syrup and then fucking him to death.

~~~  
Later.

Jim chokes and heaves as yet more of the cloying syrup is forced into his mouth. It’s been pretty much constant this round of fucking, as if the creature’s trying to fill him up with the fluid. His tummy is showing a pronounced little bulge, and Jim’s beginning to feel like he’s going to throw up if it doesn’t stop. It’s also making him relaxed and woozy, as before, and his prick is yet again standing up swollen and leaking between his thighs.

Strong tendrils snake over him, moving his limbs and positioning him on his knees. His arms are pulled back behind him and folded hand to elbow, then one of the flat membrane-like tentacles wraps itself around his upper body, binding his arms to his back. More tendrils move between his legs, spreading his thighs wide apart, and another rears up above him, pressing down on the back of his neck and forcing him to lower his head to the floor.

 _Just another day in Mycroft Holmes’s secret perverted interrogation unit. Being tied up by an alien and fucked up the arse. Ho hum._

Tentacles begin to snake over his arse in a now all-too-familiar sensation, and Jim groans as they coil around his buttocks even more tightly than usual, forcing them apart so hard he’s sure his skin’s going to tear.

Jim struggles instinctively as slime and ooze begin to plop down in fat globs along the crack of his arse, soaking it with sticky, irritating-yet-stimulating goo and dripping down between his spread thighs. With an unpleasantly loud squelch, a fat tentacle breaches his anus and fluid begins to gush up his arse, like a warm, syrupy, aphrodisiac enema. 

Jim struggles again, as hard as he can, grunting in discomfort around the oozing column of matter filling his mouth as the first stomach cramps begin. He’s getting more and more bloated and uncomfortable as his pale tummy swells as he’s pumped full of fluid at both ends.

He’s so preoccupied with his predicament that he misses the sudden _Aha!_ from Mycroft, but he certainly catches the rest of the sentence.

_We’ve had some reports of this development with other specimens. Victims being placed into a specific mating position. Mating - to be fucked open to receive the creature’s eggs._


	9. Chapter 9

The tentacle spurting into his arse at last recedes, and Jim tries to bear down to expel some of the fluid filling his gut and bloating him so uncomfortably. However, before even the slightest trickle can escape, another frond of alien matter curls upwards, its tip branching out into fine tendrils which plunge straight back into Jim's upturned backside, stretching his sphincter and pulling it open.

Another thick tentacle dripping with glutinous lubricant rises up and the thin tendrils ripple and dilate, spreading Jim’s anus open to tearing point to let the thicker, new one plunge inside.

Jim moans and squirms as the thick tentacle works itself inside him, until it's seated in his guts, deep and heavy and huge. He pants against the rubbery column filling his mouth, relieved that there's some respite from the gushing force-feeding. He strains to tilt his head to see the observation screen as an audible gasp echoes in the cell.

_Fat fuck Holmes major forgot to turn the mic off._

The reason for Mycroft's shock is all too apparent. Jim wails helplessly against the gag as his eyes follow the very large, very obvious bulge making its way so very casually and tortuously slowly along the thick tentacle dilating his anus to tearing point.

His prisoner appears to be in danger of breaking bones as his struggles increase as the bulge nears his arse. Mycroft watches in horrified fascination as the alien egg, huge and heavy, forces its way into its victim. Jim howls in pain as the widest part of the egg breaches his over-stretched anus, but the egg at last slides in with an audible, horribly wet, squelch. 

As silently as the tentacles restrained him, they recede, leaving Jim hunched over, his mouth at last clear of its gag and his anus red and swollen and gaping, the bulk of the egg clearly visible, bulging against the muscle of his lower abdomen. Jim pushes himself up from the floor, gasping, settling back into a more comfortable squat. Resting his hands on his thighs, he pants, his head bowed and sweat pouring from him as he tries to accommodate the pressure in his belly.

"You must push, James. The egg must be laid and hatched as soon as possible, or my sources tell me that the offspring will hatch and devour its host from the inside."

It is at times like this that Mycroft can deceive himself that he is the good guy, the standard bearer of all that is British and decent. A Briton cannot stand by and watch someone being gutted by an alien foetus-cum-cuckoo-in-the-nest, even if that someone is the bastard psychotic madman Jim Moriarty.

Jim spreads his legs wider, hissing in pain as he bears down.

"Fuck you, Mycroft fucking Holmes. Fuck you, fuck you, _fuck_ you." 

Mycroft winces, but one must of course maintain one's decorum in such trying situations.

"I believe that it is you, James, who is the _fucked_ party here."

"Jesus! Jesus _Christ!_ "

Jim is gagging, the combination of the syryp he's been force-fed, the mass in his gut and the sheer agony of his plight eliciting sounds to which his hereto legendary (within Mycroft's interrogation team and most probably elsewhere) tolerance for pain would give the lie.

His anus won’t fully close, gaping with the weight of the alien egg pressing against it.

"You should push." Mycroft feels like the hand-holder at a human birth. "Breathe through the pain and push."

"What are you, a fucking midwife now?"

Jim howls through clenched teeth as he pushes down. Pushing and pushing and pushing and then, suddenly, there's a fat wet squelch and a long scream as the egg slides out of Jim's hole, popping past the abused muscle and dropping down to the floor between his legs.

**Author's Note:**

> Just because. Scrummy!


End file.
